


One Long Night of Mistakes

by LastKissofDamaris



Series: One Long Night of Mistakes [1]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: F/M, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastKissofDamaris/pseuds/LastKissofDamaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's made a lot of mistakes in his life, but this might just be the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'The Three R's', that's how Trevor had put it. And he was right. Gloatingly, accurately right. Michael did have a break-up routine: 

1\. Rebound came first-scout the city for a very specific kind of woman, big tits, a nice ass, blonde; the type of woman Amanda would sneer at, the type of woman Amanda was so transparently envious of. Definitely young. That was the most important detail of all. The fall-back girl had to be young. Michael knew for a fact that if there was one thing he still had in common with his wife, it was bitterness for the wasted years of his youth.

2\. Regret came second. It came hard. So too did the plans for the third and final stage of the routine. 

3\. Redemption-flowers, cars, yoga classes, whatever the hell Amanda wanted, she could have. It was less of a 'for her', and more of a way to shift the biting guilt that inevitably made itself a home in the pit of Michael's stomach. He equated expensive gifts with clawing his way back up the ladder towards decency. Trevor had pointed this out too. And again, he was right.

This particular cycle had him in the arms of some tart at the Vanilla Unicorn, with Trevor shouting something that might have been encouragement as his face was crushed into the woman's ample bosom. Michael felt-rather than heard-her laughing. If he opened his eyes he might spot the pink lace of a bra peeking out from the tight black dress, but his senses swam and threatened to knock him off his feet, so instead he welcomed the darkness and allowed himself to be guided around the establishment in a drunken waltz. It was warm and cozy in her arms, so far removed from anything he and Amanda had shared in recent years. 

The woman laughed again as she guided him into a seat and then planted herself across his lap. Michael struggled to look up at her, the alcohol in his system felt like an insistent hand of gravity gently urging him back down, but he fought it until he locked eyes with a pair of green ones. Even in his drunken state, she wasn't the best he had ever landed; her make-up was smudged and there were telling little crow's feet and lines beneath the plaster of foundation she had slapped on. She was not as young as Michael would have liked and-

Christ, Tracey was right; he was a douchebag with women. 

He must have groaned, for moments later the woman was shushing him and embracing him back into the heat and sweat of her chest. It was the alcohol that made him stay where he was, that was all. It certainly wasn't a need to be held. That would be pathetic. 

“You look like you're enjoyin' yourself, Mikey!” 

Trevor. 

He had a bottle of beer in one hand, and another stuffed between his belt and his jeans. The strobe lights painted him in green, pink, green, white. Michael struggled to focus. If he didn't know any better, he'd have sworn someone had drugged again. Something about this drunken haze was heavier than normal, almost oppressive. When he tried to raise his arm-to shove the woman away or maybe to push at Trevor, he didn't rightly know-it flopped back down atop a firm thigh wrapped around his waist. 

When had that happened? 

More to the point, when had she started grinding against him? 

Trevor was grinning at him, a wide display of glimmering enamel. His teeth were probably the only thing clean about him. “I'll bet you don't get this kinda treatment back home these days, do ya?” He took a swig from the beer in his hand, tossed the bottle to the floor, and then took a drink instead from the one at his belt. 

He wasn't nearly as wasted as he should have been. Michael hated him just a little bit for that. 

“Fuck you.” said Michael when the room had stopped spinning. He was more than happy to insult Amanda, but she was out of bounds for everyone else. And quite frankly, Trevor was cutting close to the bone tonight; everything that tumbled out of his mouth was toxic. 

Trevor leaned in close, the strobe lights made the top of his head look like a pink light bulb. Behind him, a group of strippers were getting showered with dollar bills. “Maybe later.” he said. The growl in his voice could have been a threat... or a promise.

He pressed the lip of the beer bottle to Michael's mouth, tilting it until the liquid bubbled forth in a great spill. 

The woman laughed again, apparently unconcerned with the alcohol staining the top of her breasts. When Michael tried to jerk away, a hand pinched the back of his neck and held him still. Too drunk to put up much of a fight, he opened his mouth and took what he could. What didn't slip down his throat soaked his shirt. He wanted to mind more than he actually did. 

“You're getting' all tight-ass on us again, Mikey boy.” Trevor was saying, “You need to lighten the fuck up, man. This is supposed to be a celebration!”

Amanda was gone, Jimmy and Tracey too. All he had to look forward to was an empty home after the night was done. Michael couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was he was meant to be celebrating. 

After downing the questionable contents of Trevor's beer, Michael's grip on time was snatched out of his feeble grasp entirely. Minutes became hours, songs played and were repeated, groups of men replaced the earlier ones but the money continued to pour, and the woman in his lap was insistent with her fingers and her hips and her lips. 

The Vanilla Unicorn shifted in and out of focus, a sticky wall met his hand as he staggered towards the figure in front. 

He was outside-he was being pressed against a brick wall. The cement and gravel scratched at the small of his back where his shirt had been rucked up. A blonde head was bobbing back and forth against his dick. He wasn't hard. 

The woman was huffing and cursing. She was annoyed, or offended, or both. 

Michael turned his face up to the sky. He thought of Amanda. He thought of the last time she had done this for him. 

A rough hand wrapped suddenly around his shoulder, too big to belong to the woman. Another was curled and met his face. The crunch his nose made was sobering. 

“Oh my God, Dean!” The woman was screaming, her small frame wrapped tight around the bulk of a man almost twice her size. Almost twice Michael's size. Every cord of muscle was tensed, his teeth were broken bottles, sharp and dangerous. The cement was a second punch. Michael stared up at the man who had probably broken his nose, and tried to form the words to save his own sorry skin, but his tongue was drenched in blood, and he was choking, and all that fell forth was a garbled mess of nonsense. 

“Dean, please--”

“You shut up, bitch!” the man snarled in response. 

Michael was so fixated on the clenched fist coming again to wreak havoc on his anatomy, that he almost didn't notice when the fire escape behind the man's bulking figure swung open. He didn't, however, miss Trevor diving out of the shadows to land almost on top of the assailant, nor did he miss the glimmer of broken glass in the moonlight. 

The alley was filled with the piercing shriek of the woman, followed by the breathless 'guh' of the man as the end of the bottle forced itself into the side of his neck, tearing flesh and ligament like wet tissue. He fell to his knees, the life slipping from his eyes like the blood from his wound, and then he was flat on his back. The woman continued to scream until Trevor knocked her over the side of the head, then she too was down. 

“Fuckin' assholes.” said Trevor when he had righted himself. He looked at his blood soaked shirt as though it were a minor inconvenience, then tore it off and tossed it into the waste bin at the side of the corpse. Behind him, the fire escape opened again, a confused bouncer come to investigate. He got two feet into the alley before one look at Trevor had him hurrying back inside. 

Michael felt the alcohol rush back to dull his senses, chasing away the shock and the pain, and he let it. He didn't remember Trevor driving him home, or putting him to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

At almost three in the morning, Michael was dragged back into the land of the living by the smell of something burning. He twisted onto his back, untangling his limbs from the sheets that had coiled around them, and sniffed. Beneath the acrid stench of ash, he could make out the faint trace of bacon. With the alcohol still swimming around in his system, and the recent dregs of sleep painting his focus into a hazy blur, he might have been fooled into thinking that Amanda and the kids had come back.

But then he started to hear it. The cursing. The stomping. The general pain-in-the-ass cacophony that was Trevor Philips.

"Oh fuck..." he muttered to himself. His voice sounded nasally, and just as he started to wonder why that might be, the pain hit him and he jerked up. The woman on her knees, the jealous not-so-better half, both of them down for the count at the mercy of a very angry and messed up Canadian. It all came back."Fuck." he said again.

With a great deal of caution, Michael guided a trembling finger down the bridge of his nose and found that it was still in place. He took a shaky breath through his mouth, wincing when the cold air of the room shot out through his nostrils. The pain was a dull throb, but each inhalation stung like a motherfucker.

Whatever Trevor was currently doing downstairs (cooking? Torching the place?) required Michael's immediate attention. He decided to feel sorry for himself later on, when there was no threat of his property going up in smoke.

When he tumbled out of bed, it took a moment longer than he cared to admit for his body to get on track with his brain. His legs were still heavy and boneless under him, but he somehow managed to guide himself out of his bedroom and down the hall. The stairs seemed to glare at him as he approached, as if in challenge. He pressed his weight against the wall, and slid-shuffled down the steps one at a time. Under his palms, expensive frames with ugly portraits rattled and became askew.

At the foot of the stairway, Trevor's angry exchange with the frying pan-

"You piece of shit!"

"Fuckin' burn me."

"I'll bury you six feet under, you fuck!"

-was as clear and concise as a soprano in a concert hall.

Michael waved his hands in front of his face, wafting away the thick gathering of smoke that was as determined to burn through his eyelids as Trevor was to burn through the entire kitchen. He turned and headed towards the commotion, a very loud complaint on the tip of his tongue about manners and ungodly hours and so on and so forth.

But it died in his throat, along with whatever sanity he had managed to hold onto for all these years.

Trevor stood in the middle of the kitchen with one hand on his hip, and the other doing its best chef impression with the pan in his hand, which was spitting a considerable amount of fat and oil that Trevor managed to narrowly avoid by jerking his hips in the most absurd manner. The counter-tops were flooded with bottles, both empty and half-full, and packets, and containers, and plates piled high with meat and bread, and candy, and jars, and-

-it was a mess. It was pandemonium.

And actually, Michael could have dealt with that. Because the chaos of his kitchen was not what had his attention. It was the dress that was stretched taught over a wiry frame with scarred flesh. It was the hem of the skirt that was swaying with each ridiculous jerk of those sharp hips. It was the way the zipper at the back only closed up half-way and went no further, leaving a patch of knobby spine and rounded shoulders on display through all the smoke.

It was the way the fabric shimmered when Trevor finally turned around to acknowledge him with a wolfish grin. The fucker was wearing-wearing one of Amanda's dresses. And there-right in the far corner of the room, scrunched up like an ugly rose made of worn fabric-were Trevor's sweatpants, splashed red with the blood of the man he had killed only a few hours ago.

"Heeeeey there, sleepy head." greeted Trevor amicably. There was a drunken slur in his voice.

Michael looked him over-from the dirtied suede of his boots, to the socks pulled up just below the knee, up, up, up the length of his thighs-and then promptly turned away, shaking his head. His nose was positively throbbing now as the smoke singed its bruised insides. The pain alone reminded him that he was awake, that this was real.

"I'm making early morning breakfast." Trevor tossed the pan onto the marble counter-top, splashing more shit over the floor, and began to rummage through the cutlery drawers. "Oh, I kinda forgot to wash my hands before I started," he said over his shoulder, but Michael could barely hear him over the drone of his own inner ravings, "so I've still got your dick all over my fingers."

That did get Michael's attention.

"The fuck are you talking about?" he asked, sounding almost desperate in his confusion.

Trevor stared at him. "Your cock," he said, "was out. I tucked the little fella away."

The thought of Trevor putting his hands on him was... terrifying, yes, but-and this Michael was happy to blame on the alcohol-not quite as terrifying as it should have been.

"But hey!" said Trevor suddenly, gesturing wildly with his bare arms, "You've probably had your eager little hands on it a whole lot lately, right? So don't worry about it."

Michael tried to ignore the altogether different sting Trevor's words inflicted.

"You're a real asshole, you know that?" said Michael.

"No." Trevor's eyes had narrowed to slits, the smile gone from his face, "I'm honest." He picked the frying pan back up and it came away with a hiss. Michael was sober enough to consider how bad of an idea it might be to get into an argument, but his ego had swollen under the effects of the night's binge, and right now it was saying 'fuck you' to self-preservation, and 'fuck yes' to reclaiming a few points for his wounded masculinity.

He found himself taking a step forward. Trevor watched him, his mouth a grim line, his hand clenched around the handle of the pan. Michael could see the scorched oil spitting over the sides, and took another step. This time Trevor straightened out, rising to his full height; a warning written in every tight coil of muscle.

It was then that something clicked. Michael saw with perfect clarity that Trevor was holding back. All these years, all the fights, all the tension of the recent weeks, it was a force of sheer willpower Michael hadn't even realized the man owned.

And then something else occurred to him. The days before North Yankton, when people had hung to his every word, Trevor had been among them. He'd been just as riveted and willing to follow as everyone else. For all of his unruliness, he had still fallen into rank and embraced his role as a follower.

Trevor didn't want to be in control. He was clinging to the memory of a dead friend, of a man who had called the shots. What Trevor wanted was a ghost, a ghost that would put him in his place and force him to submit.

Michael wasn't that man anymore, but maybe, just for tonight, Townley could rise from the grave and put this wild animal back in his cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry this is so short (and terrible), I really struggled getting this part written, and it did not come out how I intended. I need to stop thinking about it when I'm bed, or at least start getting out of bed to write down the stuff, ehhh. Slash is coming, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

There was little doubt in Michael's mind that blood would spill tonight.  

It had taken three long strides to cross the kitchen and hook his fingers around the thin straps of his wife's dress, pulling them taught into his fists. A rage he'd thought buried was twisting his guts, turning them over and over. But under the blinding fury, and his own inner voice urging him to wipe _that fucking look_ off of Trevor's face, Michael was struck by thoughts of Friedlander, of all people. All the pockets he'd emptied, all the sessions he'd attended and poured his heart out. He thought of the progress he had made; he had come far.  

But not far enough.  

“Honest, huh?” he asked, the words foul on his tongue.  

Trevor sneered at him, his face inches away, each scar written upon it swept down into the scowl. When he exhaled, Michael took it in; a kiss shared through the air. He tightened his grip on the dress. If he let go, he might just swing his fist and give Trevor exactly what he wanted.  

Not yet, he told himself. Trevor could work for this. There were words that needed to be said, barbs and insults to be exchanged. And then, after fists had been thrown, and they were on the mend, maybe something would fall into place for the both of them.  

“You're God damned right I am.” snarled Trevor, baring his teeth. “You don't see me doing whatever the fuck it is _you're_ doing, Mikey boy.” When he brought his hands up in mock supplication, Michael felt the shift under his grip, the skin course and clammy. His gaze fell to the tattoo around his neck, an invitation written in pain and ink. He couldn't count the times he'd wanted to take the man up on the challenge, now he wasn't so sure. A world without Trevor left him feeling more cold than relieved these days.  

He was sober enough by this point to know that he was beyond blaming these feelings on the alcohol. But he'd always been a good liar. Even to himself.  

Trevor was still talking. His voice high and whiny as he mocked him. “ _Ohhhh_ , boo fucking hoo! I want this, I want that, but _oh,_ I'm too much of a fucking _loser_ to do anything about it. Yap yap yap, that's all you do these days, _M_.”  

Michael fought the urge to wrap his hands around Trevor's scrawny neck, and instead pulled the dress straps until he was lifting the man onto the tips of his toes and even closer into his personal space. His stomach turned again, his inner voice called him a coward; he was less than the ghost of his past.  

“You hide behind all o' this-this _shit_ , and you fuckin' hate it. But what do you do about it, huh? _Nothing_.” Trevor pushed himself back, staggering drunkenly against the sink and out of grasp. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, his eyes hard as they swept over Michael, daring him to argue.  

Michael clutched his fists against the air, staring at the emptiness Trevor had occupied, and wondered how this psychotic _fuck_ knew him better than everyone else.

“And what should I do, T?” he asked, half-hoping that just this once somebody had an answer for him. “You're the big expert tonight. You tell me.”

“Just fuckin' _do_ something!”  

Michael turned to him, surprised that-beneath the disgust-there was something close to desperation on his face. He was holding onto the counter-top as though it was the only thing grounding him. “You used to be a _man_ , Michael. Now-now I don't know what the fuck to call you. I guess _fat, useless prick_ would be a good start.”

“You better _watch_ yourself, T.” Michael snarled, “I ain't got the patience for this.”

“ _Really_? What are you gonna do? Talk about your feelings some more?” The look of dismay falls from his face completely, and in its place there's a whisper of desperation that becomes louder and louder in the silence. Then, “Stop _bitching_ and just _do something!_ ”

So Michael did.  

Trevor took the brunt of the fall, landing awkwardly against the opposite counter-top after a swing with too much momentum and far too little aim socks him in the mouth. Michael was right there with him, too angry to stop, and far too tired of Friedlander's bullshit by this point to care about how far back tonight's actions will put him. He's already trying to worm his arm out for another swing, but somewhere in the tumble strong hands had grabbed a hold of him and now refuse to let go. Blood splattered the front of his shirt, it could have been his own from earlier, or it might have belonged to the steady stream running down Trevor's face from the busted lip; another kiss from a fist on the opposite side of the existing scar.  

“Get the fuck off o' me, T!” yelled Michael, struggling against the tightening grasp of those hands. He felt himself being drawn in, arms moving to ensnare him, and then his own spine was shrieking as it felt the hard contact of the counter-top whilst Trevor crowded his space, and--

“What the hell are you doing?”

He hadn't noticed, had been far too concerned with putting his own little mark on Trevor's scarred face to pay attention to what the other man was doing with his hips. And now they were grinding against him, trapping him within a steady onslaught of feeling that turned his knees to water and sent rationality running for the hills.  

Michael worked an arm free, felt his fist clench and yearn for blood, but he grabbed again at Amanda's dress, and pulled. Trevor let himself follow until they were chest to chest. One heart thumped, the other steadily answered.  

“What the hell are _you_ doing, Michael?” Trevor retorted.  

Michael wondered how he ever found question in that growl. It was definitely a promise; an offer on the table if he was willing to take it.  

God help him, Michael found himself game.  

“I don't know, man...” answered Michael after a pause. Words and excuses rushed to his rescue, providing him with some form of justification to cower behind. “I'm drunk, all right?” It sounded feeble, even to himself, but lies were all he had. Lies and his sharp tongue.  

“Bull _shit_ you are, Mikey.” hissed Trevor, punctuating each word with a jerk of his hips. Michael could feel the hardness beneath the folds of his wife's dress, and was struck by an inexplicable urge to ruck the fabric up and explore the body hidden under it. “But if that's the way you wanna play this, then I'll take it any which way you're giving it.”

The implication of Trevor's words was incentive enough for Michael to silence the nagging in the back of his head that was gently whispering how bad of an idea this whole thing was. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had actively _wanted_ him. And yet here was Trevor, nine years on, and still as desperate as ever to lay his hands on whatever he could get. He didn't know whether to feel flattered or horrified that his friend was still clinging on for something so hopeless.  

Michael allowed his hands their exploration, dropping them to the hem of the dress. Under, up, and around. He grabbed a handful of Trevor's ass and urged him forward until their cocks were flush against one another. Trevor grunted appreciatively, his eyelids fluttering over eyes blown wide by lust.  

“Why now?” asked Michael, his words pillowed against the lips pursed centimeters from his own. Up this close, he could smell the copper of the busted corner of Trevor's mouth.

Trevor glanced at him, his brows shooting up towards his thinning hairline. “I'm trying to get your rocks off, and you're askin' me _why now_?” he brought their hips together again, worrying his lower lip over a swallowed gasp. For a moment, Michael thought that was all the answer he was going to get-and honestly, he was all too happy to follow his friend's lead and lose himself in the way his cock felt against Trevor's, then “You really want this conversation now? Right now, _really_?”

Michael's response wilted on his tongue, drowned upon an appreciative groan as Trevor worked a hand beneath the waistband of his briefs and wrapped his fingers around him. His palms were rough, and his grip awkward, but there was no denying it felt good.

“I just...” Michael tried again, his voice unsteady as Trevor found his rhythm, “I'm not blind, T. Never was.”  

Trevor's grip tightened around him, his eyes downcast, staring determinedly at the motion of his own hand. His other had slipped under the dress to attend to his own needs. Michael watched him work himself, the chamois fabric fluttering with each twist of his wrist.  

“You think I didn't notice? All the looks, the jokes— _fuck_.” A particularly rough jerk should have been warning enough that, if he didn't want his dick torn off, he should just button it and enjoy the ride.

Nobody had ever accused Michael of making good decisions.  

He reached down, sliding his fingers over Trevor's own, and holding them there. Trevor met his gaze, his face flushed, his lips sealed tight over each desperate exhale. Michael took over, guiding his rhythm on himself. The heat of the unfamiliar flesh in their combined grasp sent a spike of arousal straight to Michael's cock, and he found himself wondering if this could go any further.  

“Why now?” he asked again, his voice breathless and unsteady as his stomach tingled and swam. He could feel himself tumbling closer to the edge with each close-fisted embrace over the head of his dick. Trevor puffed weakly against his neck, his own cock twitching within their hands.  

“Why not back- _shit_ -back then, _before--_ ”

“Before what?” snapped Trevor, “Before you revealed yourself to be the slimiest-”

 The pressure of Trevor's hand increased sharply, and Michael winced.  

“- _sneakiest_ -”

“ _Just answer the fuckin' question, T!_ ”

Trevor jerked back an inch, his hand unfurling. Michael cursed the chill its absence left along his length. He wanted an answer, but not at the expense of whatever _this_ was. He dropped his head back, weary and tired, and desperate to reach the end-goal. “Just-just get your hand back on my dick.” he muttered.  

The smirk that curved Trevor's bloodied mouth suggested that he would do no such thing, but Michael was given barely a moment to consider the lonely task of finishing himself off before rough fingers wrapped back around him, a callused thumb sweeping over the crown. Michael's hands flew to Trevor's hips and held tight.  

“ _Maaaaybe_ I was gonna, you know, make a move. At _some_ point” said Trevor, his eyes fixed again to what his hands were doing. Michael would be tempted to say he looked almost _bashful_ , but that would be ridiculous. “Or never.” he added quickly.  

Despite all his good sense telling him not to, Michael couldn't hold back the choked laughter that worked its way up from some part of him that still remembered how to have fun. The look on Trevor's face turned murderous, but thankfully, he didn't reach for the sharpest utensil and bury it six inches deep.  

“Aw T, you're breaking my heart here. You sayin' you were too _shy_ to try it?”

“Fuck you, Michael.”  

Michael's grin widened. Maybe it was just the hand still moving on his cock, but he felt good. Better than good, he felt _great_.  

“And what about you, huh?” asked Trevor, the sting still clear in his voice, “You're not exactly turning me down right now.”

“Like I said, I'm drunk, man. My senses have all gone to shit.”  

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Trevor reached deeper into his pants, his wrist sinking into the tight confines of the expensive trousers. Michael let his head drop against his chest, exhaling loudly when those fingers slipped past his balls to explore the sensitive patch of skin hidden behind. “Never could be honest with yourself, could you?”

 There it was again. The accusal, the bite in his words.  

“I want you to take this stupid fucking dress off, and get your ass over on the couch.” Michael growled, “How's that for honest?”

Trevor's hand came to a stop. His entire body went rigid. Michael felt his chest tighten under his chin, felt his heart thump.  

“Wow. _Wa-how_. That-that was almost like the old days, Mikey.” Trevor whispered against the shell of his ear. “Fuck, how did you ever turn into this pitiful mess!”

Pinching the sharp jut of Trevor's hips hard enough to make him grunt, Michael pushed him back, hard. He stumbled into the kitchen table, a ridiculous look of surprise across his flushed face. The hand he had worked Michael with glimmered under the lights.  

“Just _stop_.” said Michael. The rage was back, coiling his intestines into knots. “For five _fucking minutes_ , just _stop_.”

Trevor stared at him, wide-eyed. Amanda's dress was rucked up over the swell of his dick. Everything about him looked absurd, wrong, and yet Michael felt his prick twitch against his stomach all the same.

“Can we just _fuck,_ with _out_ the commentary! You'll get what you want, and I'll get, I dunno, _something_. And then, then we can pretend this whole fucking night never happened and go back to bitching at each other.

“Now, are you gonna get on the _fucking couch_ , or do you want me to _bend you over the table_ and take you like that?”

If he wasn't so focused on the steady tremble of Trevor's parted thighs, Michael might have noticed the way his throat worked once, twice, and a third time before he managed to loosen the words. “... The couch sounds nice...” he said at length.

“Yeah,” agreed Michael, “yeah it does.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The shift from the kitchen to the living room was a blur of hands tangling into Michael's clothes, and lewd promises whispered into his ear as Trevor guided him backwards with an eagerness that-if it hadn't already-spelled out _exactly_ how long he had been wanting this to happen between them.

Quick fumbles were something Michael hadn't partaken in for some time. Even when paying for hookers, he'd always prided himself on being a gentleman and making sure they enjoyed themselves. In the moments before standing and finding himself lying against the couch, he pictured Trevor with his face pushed into the cushions and his ass in the air, demanding it harder, faster, _more_. The twitch his cock gave was an avenue of thought Michael wasn't quite ready to explore just yet-if ever.

The weight that settled into his lap was both familiar and alien to him. Where women were damp heat, and soft, pillowy thighs coloured with the eager marks of grasping fingers, Trevor was hard, heavy, and his thighs on either side of Michael pinned him in place like a vice. His cock lay against Michael's stomach, flushed and swollen. Over his shoulder, items of clothing formed a path upon the carpet.

The dress was not one of them.

That still stretched taught with every gulp of air Trevor took. A single strap had tumbled down his shoulder, and rested against the inked reminder of what Michael had done nine years ago. The hem of it blossomed around their hips, a peach rose.

Michael felt his stomach stir, a heat coiling up in the pit of him that left no room for denial.

He couldn't remember losing his own clothes in the rush to the couch, but he was looking down the length of his torso, broad and exposed, to stare at the way his dick sat large beneath Trevor's. His trousers hung around his ankles, his boxers a little higher up on his calves. He braced himself for the usual barbs about his weight, readied himself with a come-back about the inoffensive _equipment_ Trevor was packing, but they never came. When Trevor ran his hands along his stomach to rest against his collar bone, the only thing Michael found on his face was a gentle quirk of his mouth that was the nearest to an honest-to-God smile he'd ever seen upon it.

A wash of juvenile spite clouded his thoughts, a defense against the guilt. Michael was half-way to wrapping his hand around Trevor, and telling him what a pathetic, useless _fuck_ he was for hanging on to this for so long, and how _dare_ he make this too about owing him-when the man leaned forward, rolling his hips against him.

Michael tossed his head back and groaned.

Lester had once joked that Michael and Trevor would end up either fucking or killing each other. Smug little bastard always had been good at reading people.

He covered his face as Trevor continued, his cheeks flushed and hot beneath his splayed fingers. The weight on his lap lessened a moment later, and for one horrifying second, Michael thought that maybe he was just going to be left like this as a belated act of vengeance, but then he was being being engulfed by warmth and _fuck_ , nobody had ever gone down on him without his practically _begging_ or paying for it.

Peeking through his fingers, Michael watched himself disappear into Trevor's smirking mouth. He caught his gaze and held it, even as his cheeks burned and his shame hit an all-time high. He tried not to think about Amanda, about how different she looked whenever she gave in and did this for him; her features twisted around barely concealed disgust.

Hunched over as he was between Michael's legs, one of his hands hidden beneath the dress as he worked himself, Trevor looked like he was enjoying himself. He pressed closer, his eyes slipping shut as he took him in deeper, wrapping his tongue around the length. Michael's hands flew to his hair, holding on. If he let go, he thought he might just break his back in two; he was too old to be writhing around like this.

The wet _pop_ that filled the room was obscene, but not as obscene as the loss Michael felt when that wet heat left him to the chill of the air. He found Trevor's eyes, bright and amused, and fought to find his voice; he was not above pleading.

“ _T._ ” he managed, voice high-strung and reedy in his desperation. “Come on, man.”

“Hold yer horses there, cowboy.” said Trevor, straightening up until he was kneeling over Michael's lap. The dress fell about his hips, the semi-transparent fabric colouring his strong legs pink. “Christ, you this selfish with Amanda? No wonder she left you.”

The few choice words on the tip of his tongue slipped back into the depths of his stomach, tasting horribly like surrender. He'd fight and argue with him later, but right now he was more concerned with getting Trevor's mouth back around him.

“Come _on_ , T.” he tried again.

Trevor braced an arm around the top of the couch. He reached his free hand behind himself, wrapping his fingers around the base of Michael's cock, holding him, and began to ease down. Michael felt himself flush when he realized what Trevor was doing, then he was gritting his teeth and trying not to buck up when the first inch found its way inside.

He pressed himself back against the cushions, his hands flying to Trevor's thighs and digging into the hard flesh. His hips jerked of their own accord, but instead of gaining another inch, he lost one. Trevor pulled away with a startled grunt of discomfort, a look of murder on his face.

“I'm sorry!” said Michael quickly.

“ _You fuckin' will be_!” snapped Trevor, his voice unsteady. “You do that again and you'll be swallowing your fucking teeth, _bro_.” He slowly lowered himself another few centimeters, his face screwed up in concentration. Michael couldn't tear his eyes away from him, found himself staring at the way he sucked his lower lip between his teeth and worried at it. He considered reaching up, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him down, finding out how those lips would feel against his own.

Another inch and Trevor unwrapped his hand from around him, curling his fingers instead within the open collar of Michael's shirt. He arched forwards, groaning.

Michael tried to swallow his own desperate cries, but when Trevor finally seated himself, clenching around him, he couldn't help the whine that tore itself free.

Under his palms, Trevor's legs were trembling and clammy. He was overcome with another spike of guilt, but instead of following it up with spite, Michael found something softer. He lessened his grip, slipping one around to the small of Trevor's back, and wrapping the other around his length.

Trevor looked at him. Michael didn't think he'd ever seen him look so vulnerable, so _broken_. As if he was waiting for rejection, even now.

He gave a twist of his wrist, Trevor bit at his lip again, choking back whatever noise was trying to tumble free. Finding himself denied by the silence, he rolled his hips up into his tight grip. The answering clench around him had them both moaning.

“You-you ever think about me with the others?” The question hadn't supposed to sound so accusatory, Michael was simply curious to know how far Trevor's imagination had stretched during his trysts, but there was a sharp note in the breathlessness of his voice that sounded ridiculously like jealousy.

Trevor eased up a couple of inches, he said nothing.

“Ever pretend it was me fucking you?”

When he dropped back down onto his lap, Michael felt himself jerk up to meet him. His spine squealed, arched too taught. Trevor whined against his throat, blanketing Michael's torso with his own as he continued to roll his hips.

“Wh-what the fuck do you think?” he hissed, his words a damp puff of air on Michael's neck. “Your ego's big enough, _Mikey_ , don't need me fattening it up even more.”

“What about the women?” Michael continued. He fisted Trevor's prick, mirroring the desperation he felt. “You think about me when you're fucking them?”

The answering snort against his neck had Michael wishing he'd just kept his mouth shut and fucked him in silence. “Well,” said Trevor, “the way their _tits_ bounce around, it's tough _not_ to think about you.”

Michael surged forwards, pushing Trevor back until his top half met the couch. The dress fell about his waist, exposing him as Michael hoisted his legs up and pressed back in with a growl. “ _Fuck you_.” he spat, digging his nails deeper into Trevor's hips, even as his other hand found his length again.

“ _J-Jesus_.” Trevor gasped. His eyes were wide and alarmed, his mouth hanging open in a surprised O. Michael grabbed a fistful of his (no, no, it didn't belong to him) dress, and hauled him forwards.

“I don't bend that--” was all he managed to say before Michael covered his lips with his own. He tasted of cheap beer and even cheaper food, but it was honest and natural, and Michael wanted more of it. He wormed his tongue inside, fucking his mouth in a mimicry of each jerk of his hips against his ass.

He swallowed every cry Trevor failed to bite back, and worked him faster, desperate to see him come undone by his own hand.

A hand twisting against the folds of his shirt, and a leg hiking up around the small of his back was all the warning Michael got before Trevor was spilling over his fingers. He clenched as he spasmed under him, his body a soft vice that worked Michael towards his own precipice. Michael saw him through it, taking everything he had, even as Trevor's groans turned from pleased to annoyed. “ _Mich_ ael” he keened.

Michael supposed, in hindsight, he'd probably be embarrassed about coming at the sound of Trevor's voice and the sight of his dick in his hands, twitching against the dress, but as he spent himself, he felt nothing but gratitude and an intoxicating nothingness that swept like liquid fire to every inch of him.

He collapsed against him, smiling at the huffed grumble of annoyance he got in response. Trevor was slick and cool in his palm, and he could feel himself softening inside him, but he barely had the motivation to keep his eyes open, let alone move.

It was only when he felt a fist slap against the crown of his head that he managed to look up. Trevor looked positively debauched, his hair had rucked up against the cushions and stood on end, and the marks of his scars had practically vanished beneath the flush of his cheeks. His mouth had set into a grim line that Michael didn't quite understand; he looked tightly wound, ready to spring.

“Get the fuck off o' me.” he demanded, wriggling under him for emphasis.

Michael didn't move. “I will,” he said, keeping his tone light, “just gimme a minute, man.” His laughter was met with a scowl and a sharp nudge to his ribs.

Not wishing to give Trevor reason to start fighting with him again, he slipped out of him with a grunt and sat back, trying not to look at the state he was in below the waist. Trevor was on his feet in an instant, storming towards the kitchen on unsteady legs.

“It's been fun, Mikey.” he called, his voice tight and hard, “But I got shit to do and all that. Got a business to run.” Michael heard him turn the tap on, the rush of the water drowned out the heavy footfall of his boots and the clattering of his hands as he rummaged through drawers. He reached down to the floor, collecting a discarded sock and wiped himself off. He pulled his pants and trousers back up before approaching the kitchen.

“You going already?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He searched about the mess Trevor had made. “Thought you were making us breakfast, bro.”

Trevor whirled around, looking unsure of himself. “Isn't this the part where you kick me out?” he asked.

The sudden understanding hit Michael like a punch to the gut, and for a long, _long_ moment, he couldn't think of a single thing to say. Trevor must have seen something on his face that looked like admission because he was sneering and stomping by him in a blur of colour before Michael found his wits again and grabbed him by the arm.

Before he found himself with a mouth full of broken teeth, he said, “I'm not kicking you out.”

Trevor looked unconvinced.

“Look,” he tried again, “I'm tired, OK. I'm _sick_ to fucking death of arguing, man.” He brought his hands up, hoping to look as non-confrontational as possible (although judging from Trevor's behaviour whenever he opted to be diplomatic about these things, it might not have been a good idea), and continued, “If you want to stay, that's-that's _fine_ with me. Just, just do what you want. I'm too tired to stand here and argue with you.”

It was as much of a 'thank you' as he was capable of giving. He turned away, too tired to climb the stairs to his bed, and moved instead back to the couch. It stank of an ungodly amount of things when he let himself fall back into it, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

A moment later, the weight sank again at the side of his head. He glanced up, immediately wishing he hadn't when he was greeted with a rather intimate view of Trevor's ass as he climbed over him. Michael hooked his hands into the armrest, holding himself steady as he was unceremoniously shoved back several inches whilst Trevor made himself comfortable between the back of the couch and Michael's stomach.

“The fuck are you doing?” asked Michael, more amused than annoyed.

Trevor looked back at him from over his shoulder, his brows arched high, “Doing what I want.” he said, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. Michael watched him turn back around to face the cushions, trying not to laugh.

Hours later, he would wake up to find his arm held tight around Trevor's waist, and he would keep it there.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Well! It is done! I sat here most of the day re-writing this and struggling away. I'm not all that happy with it, but I'm glad I finished it, now I can move on to write more of them. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


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